Dusk, Eh
by laughs I moved to a new thing
Summary: About four things I was certain. First, Gilbert was a vampire. Second, there was a part of him that wanted my blood. Third, I was in love with him. Fourth, I was kind of thankful for my father being gay; maybe coming out wouldn't be so hard. PruCan, AU
1. Chapter 1

**_I'm warning you right now: I'm making Canada a little more cynical and sarcastic than probably normal, and Prussia's going to be more France-like, if you catch my drift. Just thought I'd let you know before you got all confused on why little Mattie's swearing so much (not that he is, really)._  
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><p><strong>Dusk, Eh?<br>Chapter 1**

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><p>Papa drove me to the airport that day with the windows rolled down. I, for one, wanted them rolled up and to blast the AC, but he was adamant about me touching the A/C. It's a little frightening.

"Papa, it's almost thirty-two degrees outside." *

"Oui, and you'd better be happy about it. It's normally not this warm in Canada. Your mother won't believe you if you tell him."

He was right, the average temperature here in January was usually…well, cold. And yes, my mom is a man. That also means that my papa's a man, too (obviously), so they're gay (which is fine by me, whatever floats your boat, to each his own and all that), and no – they didn't get me at some clinic. I was actually born through a surrogate. I don't think I've ever met her, but I'm fine without knowing what she looks like. We're still not one hundred percent sure who my actual father is, but we think it's my dad. I look more like him, anyway—wavy blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin—so it's easy enough to see the resemblance.

Now, in case you were wondering, I live—er, I _used to live _in the good old city of Vancouver, Canada. My parents, I guess, used to live in Paris, and when they decided they wanted a kid, they looked online for surrogate that wasn't too expensive (but, and I may just be reiterating a nightmare that I had when I was younger, I think they found her on Greg's List*) so they found the one up in Vancouver. Apparently French surrogates charge too much for their…services. Papa was much more than willing to, you know, work with the surrogate, being…eh, never mind. Papa said that Arthur hadn't wanted to move all the way back to France so they packed everything up and moved into their little almost-mansion in Canada.

That being the case, when we vacationed to Massachusetts—not my choice, but I was also, what, two, three? It was actually Arthur's choice, being closest to England we could find (New England, get it? Yeah, it took me a while, too. Damn cheesy joking…)—for the summer, it was really hot and sunny, and…well, let's just say that I got my surrogate mother's skin. See, that being the case, and she being Canadian (probably), I don't tan.

Nope, I burn.

_Badly_.

So since I never went outside…well, it was Canada. Nobody ever really went outside in Canada, unless they wanted to be pelted by snow, even if it _was_ Vancouver.

Which brings me to another note:

I'm moving—obviously—to the neighbour of good old Canada, in the northern-most state, which is also really snowy. But wait…I'm not talking about Alaska…so maybe it's the second-northern-most state? Sure. Maine. To live with my dad…er, my mom…my not-Papa.

Okay, for any future reference, I'm calling Francis, the parent that I've been living with, Papa, and Arthur dad (unless I just call him by his name). Let's hope that clears anything up.

See, my parents split when I was about five, and Arthur moved down to Maine, because I guess there's a huge French population down there. That's what he told me. I don't get it—he's the one who split up with my dad, so I don't get why he wants a crap ton of French people around. They're all Canadian-French, but it's still French…in a sense.

And it's not like he lives in some big city, like Portland or Lewiston or Augusta, or even somewhere up north, near Canada, like Presque Isle. No, I'm moving to the miniscule town of Mouth, population 3,785. Vancouver had a population of over two million. *

Since my papa's basically the town whore, I won't be able to go unnoticed—he used to live in Mouth when he was younger, before he met my dad…but they actually met there and settled down, moved to France, then came back up to Canada …eh, I'm confused. Anyway, Arthur, on the other hand, is chief of police down in Mouth, so I won't be able to get away with much…er, anything.

Not that I _would_, I'm just saying.

He _is_ British after all.

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><p>It's about a five-hour-and-fifteen-minute flight from my hometown of Vancouver to the "bustling" city of Portland, then another hour or so drive from there to Mouth. Arthur picked me up from the airport, since, even though there's a train that runs through the center of the town of Mouth, it doesn't stop there. It's too small a town for a train station anyway, or so says Arthur. *<p>

Since he doesn't really express many emotions—

"Bleeding Christ, Matthew, you're thin as a twig! Didn't Francis ever fucking feed you? After all, he _is_ a head chef at that restaurant; shouldn't he be feeding his own bloody child?"

Okay, he doesn't express many emotions _except anger_. I think I could see why it didn't work out between him and Papa. Though maybe it was Papa's flirting with…well, everything. But he can't help that he's French! And when I say 'everything,' I mean _everything_. He sleeps (slept, actually, until he and Arthur split up) with both men and women, see, and one night, he came home with a lamppost.* I'm not sure how it happened, since he only ever drinks wine and hardly ever enough to even consider himself buzzed, let alone piss drunk—and oh maple, five minutes with Arthur and already I'm using Briticisms.

I tried to ignore him on the hour-long drive up to Mouth, , but it was hard when he was dropping all these F-bombs (or the British equivalent) every thirty seconds, ranting and raving about god only knows. At least I could hold onto the pure-white cat that I've had since I was little who never seems to remember who I am, Kumakiji—or is it Kumatarou? Kumajitou? Kumachigi? I don't really remember. He only ever comes to me to ask for food, and I forgot about putting his name on his food dish, so…maybe that'll be the first thing i do when i get to Arthur's house.

Anyway, the reason I moved here to the perpetually cloudy town of Mouth was because of my papa.* It wasn't that he was doing anything _wrong—_no, he was just fine, despite coming home with some random woman, sometimes a man and once a lamppost, every night—but he said he wanted to pursue his dream of being a restaurant owner. He was already a head chef, cooking French food that even made me, a full blood Canadian, love his cooking. I didn't want to get in his way—and he kept complaining about how cold it was in Canada, despite Vancouver's beauty and general non-Canadaness—so when I offered one day to move down here to Mouth with Arthur, he approved. Perhaps a little too quickly. And enthusiastically. It was a bit unnerving. So since he wanted to make a living from cooking French food, and we had that house—well, manor was more like it—in France, he moved back to France and I came to live with Arthur in Mouth for a while. I think it was mainly a ploy to get me to get along with Arthur, since we'd never quite hit it off that well in the past. Why did it take me this long to realise that?

Arthur is average height, perhaps a bit short, sandy-haired, kinda spindly (but look who's talking), green eyes, the hugest eyebrows I've ever seen, and foul-mouthed. Like, he drops F-bombs every thirty seconds. He's not at all like my Papa, who's also blond (though more of a golden color), blue-eyed, flirtatious as sin, and hardly swears. I look a bit like papa, I suppose—blond, a _really_ annoying haircurl that just doesn't want to cooperate and sticks in front of my face, blue-violet eyes, glasses that seem to protest against me wearing them by sliding down my nose ever few minutes…. Arthur's English, Papa's French, and I'm Canadian…we're kind of a mixed up family, actually, despite appearances.

We drove back to his house in his police car thing that was given to him by the station. The house is alright, small, double-wide trailer, tan and two bedrooms. Just like I remember it from my stays almost every summer.

It was during our drive to my dad's home that he pretty much dropped the bomb. Not literally (I hope).

"I, uh…I got you a car."

…huh? A car? "Really?"

"Yeah."

Wow. "Thanks."

"Yeah."

And I was genuinely surprised. Not because of the car (no, papa texted me while I was in the car with Arthur about it, before he'd brought it up), but because we managed to have a full conversation without him swearing. Like, at all. It was kinda strange. Sure, it was only a total of ten words (his 'uh' didn't count as a word) between the two of us, but still.

When we got back to Arthur's house, there was the car—actually, it was a truck—in all of its Canadian glory.

No, actually, it wasn't so bad as having the Canadian flag painted on it. It was, like, _neon orange_.

"Thanks, Arth…er, Dad—mom." I paused, took a deep breath, and tried again. "Thanks." I meant it, too.

He helped me take my bags to my room—which I probably could have done myself, since there were only three—and then promptly left after telling me—angrily—when dinner was…even if it was only a quarter of noon.

That's probably the best thing about him.

He doesn't hover.

I didn't have to worry about looking pleased.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love Arthur and everything, but moving to Mouth…it was going to be hard. I didn't have many friends back in Vancouver, so it wasn't like I had to worry about a hard goodbye, but my papa and I were close.

Glancing out the window, I noticed that dark storm clouds began moving their way over the sky.

Joy.

Later that night, I found that, after attempting to eat Arthur's cooking…well, I don't think you can even call it 'cooking,' because it's more like burnt, hazardous waste.

Thank god for having at least one father who can cook and my having lived with him for the first seventeen years of my life. I'd picked up a thing or two from Papa, so I forced Arthur to stop all cooking for the rest of the time that I was living here, and to let me do it. No offense to him or anything, but…he just really shouldn't be cooking.

Ever.

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><p>Mouth Academy—kind of a lame name for a high school, especially of this size—was…well, it was actually much smaller than the high school in Vancouver. It looked like there was only one or two, maybe three for a few, teachers per subject in the whole school, which was only two stories itself and the basement. Honestly, I'm surprised the gym and cafeteria were separate, rather than being used for the same thing. It wasn't hard to tell that the school's colours were maroon and white—it was practically all over the school. *<p>

After I'd stopped into the front office, gotten my schedule, and was told where my homeroom was, I was stopped in the hall by a pretty Spanish-looking girl, who introduced herself as Maria—who, by the way, is actually from Venezuela, not Mexico or Spain. Apparently she was in my first period class, calculus, and had lunch with me. So after my morning classes passed by (they were kind of boring; I'd done them already back in Vancouver so it wasn't like I was learning anything new other than Mainer accents are _really_ annoying) and the bell finally rang for lunch, Maria met up with me by my locker with some other guy who looked, like, Cuban or something, Miguel.*

One rather _interesting_ conversation about ice cream with Miguel and four flights of stairs later, we'd arrived at the lunch room. It was kind of small from what I was used to, but my god was it packed. Seriously, for only half of the entire student body, there were a lot of kids. Er, it seemed like it—there were actually only about 120-something students in the lunch room at that point. *

Anyway, it was obvious that Maria knew, like, _everyone_ in the school, which she proved by pointing to everyone with her fork and telling me a bunch of information about whomever it was that she pointed to.

Suddenly, as Maria was explaining Miss Braginskaya's…_assets_ (something I wasn't exactly paying attention to, because they were her private business), I don't know what made me do it, but I turned around to look at where I felt the _five pairs of eyes on my back_.

It was a group of who I assumed to be students, all—er, most not looking at each other. All five of them shared the same chalky complexion, eyes dark but of different colours.

The two girls were, well… The first girl, staring hungrily at one of the boys, had pale blond hair, stopping around the lower-middle of her back and held back by a white ribbon that was tied into a bow. Her eyes were dark violet but a bit subdued and looked just slightly blue, not as much as mine, though. She wore a dark blue sort of Lolita-style dress, also kind of resembling that of a maid with a white apron tied around her midsection. There was lace around the collar, and the edge of the sleeves possessed white ruffles. But seriously, her staring was freaking me out, even if it was directed at that first boy. The other girl had long, pretty chocolate brown hair that curled a little at the end and forest green eyes. Unlike the first, she held a giddy smile on her face, like she'd just won the lottery or something. She wore a light green, pull-over sweatshirt and black jeans that flared out a bit at the calves. She was staring at the other two boys, not the really tall one, who looked like they were in some sort of argument.

The first boy was…well, he was _huge_. He was sitting down, and even then I could tell that he was easily over six feet tall, which almost frightened me. He held a childish grin on his face, but it looked forced and nervous—like he didn't actually want to be smiling—and didn't reach his dark violet eyes. His hair was pale blond and almost wavy—I couldn't really tell if it was straight or wavy, honestly. He wore a knee-length tan jacket that looked like it belonged to some Soviet officer and what looked like blue jeans underneath. The second boy had semi-messy, dark brown hair—by semi-messy, I mean most of it was well kept and neat, but there was one flyaway strand that stood up almost on end and curled slightly at the end—and dark topaz eyes. His clothing was refined and proper, definitely standing out in the tiny school of only 230-something students who had probably all known each other practically since birth. He was glaring at the third boy, and his mouth moved every now and then—very subtly, but still kind of obvious in a way, if you were paying attention. The third, I think, was albino. He had messy, silver-white hair that kind of stuck up in random places (was that a…was that a _canary_ nestled in the light-coloured locks?) and deep burgundy-coloured eyes that, although he looked to be arguing with the second boy, they seemed fixed on me. I couldn't really tell what emotions flickered through them, because they came and went so fast—first it looked like interest, then, after he looked back at me from grabbing the brunette's haircurl thing, confusion, then…anger? What was there to be angry at _me_ about? I didn't do anything (I think)!

Anyway, did I mention that all five of them were breathtakingly gorgeous?

Oh, well how about that they all belonged on the cover of some magazine?

No? Well good.

Because they did.

The first girl and the last boy, especially.

Now, don't take that the wrong way. I was raised by two gay fathers (well, one was gay—the other slept with _everything_), so I'm a very open-minded person…not to mention growing up with my papa's genes, if you know what I mean. Y'know, liking both men and women…yeah, shut up. I appreciate beauty in all forms!

And holy maple, I sound just like papa.

"Who're they?" I asked, motioning to the group. I didn't really want to take my eyes off of the last boy, but since I was practically turned around in my seat and staring at them, I turned my attention to Maria.

"Them?" Maria asked, sounding a bit annoyed and motioning to the table I was just looking at. Maybe I cut her off? Whoops. I'll apologise to her later. I nodded at both my idea and Maria's words. She smiled, seeming like any annoyance was forgotten. "They're the Beilschmidt family."

"That's a German name, eh? They don't look very German," I pointed out, confused.

Miguel gave a kind-of grin, taking a spoonful of ice cream that he'd purchased from the cafeteria up to his mouth. "They're all adopted. I guess Dr Beilschmidt and his significant other person thing—"

"You can say he's gay, you know. I grew up with two gay fathers. It doesn't bug me." I didn't bother put in that my papa slept with men, women, _and_ lampposts.

He gave me an appreciative grin and started over. "Dr Beilschmidt and his husband wanted kids, but since they're gay and don't wanna pay for a surrogate, they figured they'd try to do some kind of good by adopting. The family's freakin' rich, so they had enough money to adopt three kids."

"Three?" I asked, confused. There were five kids over there…

Before Miguel could go on, Maria stopped him by putting a hand on his. Smiling, she turned to me. "Let me explain. Dr Beilschmidt and his husband adopted Gilbert, Roderich, and Elizaveta when they were little. Gilbert and Roderich are cousins, believe it or not, even though Roderich's from Vienna and Gilbert from Berlin. A few years later, a good friend of Dr Beilschmidt died, leaving Nataliya and Ivan. Since their original parents died, Dr Beilschmidt didn't have to pay any adoption fees, since he was put into Ivan and Nataliya's parents' will and became their legal guardian after their death."*

I guess it made sense, but who were each of them? I voiced my thoughts to Miguel (he seemed a little more mentally stable, which seems to be a long story that I'll try to explain some other time), but Maria answered for him.

"Okay, the two platinum blonds—the really tall boy and the really pretty girl—are Ivan and Nataliya Braginski. They're kind of together. The dark-haired boy with the flyaway strand is Roderich Beilschmidt, and he's dating the girl who looks like she wants to explode with happiness, Elizaveta. Interestingly, she doesn't have the same last name as any of the others—hers is Hèdervàry. It's Hungarian or something." I was about to ask who the other one was, since I'd forgotten already, when Maria noticed the confused expression on my face. "And the annoying-looking, albino one? That's Gilbert Beilschmidt. He's the only single one—probably 'cause he's so annoying!" She paused to laugh. "So you know what that means, right?"

I shook my head no, and Miguel cut her off before she could pass out, probably. Seriously, she was starting to scare me.

"Maria, don't." Glancing to me, Miguel grinned and, without taking his eyes from mine, continued. "Let me." He blinked himself out of that creepy trance he was in, and went on. "They're committing legal incest." He paused and thought a moment, then went on. "Well, Ivan and Nataliya are committing _actual_ incest—though most of it's non-consensual. Despite appearances, Nataliya's really scary. And overprotective—"

"That's not what I mean, Miguel," Maria cut in, looking at me. She smiled, which kind of gave me the creeps. "No, I mean that, since Gilbert's easily the hottest boy over there and not in a relationship with anyone, rumour has it that he's about as straight as the lead guy in that trashy vampire romance novel…what's it called again? Headlight? Starlight? Highlight?"

"Twatlight," Miguel answered, grinning widely. Maria saw this and, reaching past me, smacked Miguel on the back of the head.

"Moron."

I didn't really hear any more of their squabbling, because my mind was void of any thoughts other than that of the Beilschmidts. After a few minutes of staring at whatever it was _supposed to be_ (really, if my papa were here, he'd have a serious talk with the lunch staff about how to make edible food) on my lunch tray, Maria spoke up again, her voice a whisper.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt's staring at you."

This got my attention. Without trying to make it too obvious, I turned my head back to their table, not very surprised to find that Gilbert Beilschmidt's eyes were fixed on my back. I stared back at him for a few moments, until Miguel broke me out of my pseudo-trance, telling me that class was about to start. Wondering how I could have missed the bell, I looked over to him to let him know that I'd acknowledged his words and nodded, giving one final glance to the Beilschmidt table.

They were gone.

All five of them had completely vanished from the cafeteria, without so much as a straw wrapper left where they were sitting. All traces of them being in the cafeteria that day were…gone. Almost like they'd never been there in the first place.

I'd only looked away for a second or two.

The door to get back out into the hall was on the other side of the cafeteria from them.

Creeps.

The image of the five of them dressed in skin-tight ninja clothing, fleeing from the lunch room, flashed through my mind, making me blush.

Gilbert looked _really _good in skin-tight, black spandex, I won't lie.

…

Oh, dear god.

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><p>Saying that I was surprised when I walked into my biology class would be an understatement.<p>

And that, as well, would be an understatement.

Looking around the room, I noticed that Miguel also had this class (he kind of ditched me in the hall, something about taking too long at my locker), and that he was sitting in one of the two desks that had only one person sitting at it. I hoped I would be able to sit in the one beside him, because I really didn't want to sit at the other one. I mean—

Ah, damn it.

Almost pushing me over to get to his seat, another male student sat hurriedly in the seat next to Miguel just as the bell rang. You don't even want to _know_ what I was thinking, the curses I'd learned from Arthur (not really thinking I'd ever need them for anything but humouring him anyway) directed to that male student. I didn't exactly know that the seats were, erm, assigned at the time…

The teacher walked into the classroom halfway through my third string of Latin, giving me my textbook and letting me know that I should just follow along whenever I got the hang of things. After that, he told me to take a seat, to which I responded cleverly that there weren't any open seats. I was almost surprised to find that he actually looked up from whatever papers he was shuffling through and swept his gaze over the room, searching for an open seat. A perplexed 'hm' escaped his throat, making me grin with pride. I made him believe me! I mean, this was monumental. I planned on going home, telling Arthur of my accomplishments, and taking a nice, warm bath as reward—

"Yes, Mr Williams. Right next to Mr Beilschmidt."

Now, I'm not one to cuss often, but I couldn't help the hardly-voiced, breathy "fuck" that escaped my lips.

Hurrying to my seat, it looked almost like Gilbert was grinning behind his raised fist that I think was supposed to either hide his up-turned lips or keep him from smelling anything. Did I really smell bad? I'd showered this morning…put on my deodorant…

What was his problem?

And anyway, it wasn't like he said I smelled bad per say. He kind of just sat there, his body rigid, clenching his fist on top of the table. He didn't even try to make it subtle, and his other hand—when he wasn't whipping his phone out and texting about a million words per second—was covering his mouth and nose. It looked hard to breathe.

And then I realised.

At lunch today, Maria gave me a hug at the end.

I probably smelled like her perfume.

Thank god this is the last period of the day.

…

Damn it all to hell.

* "thirty-two degrees" that's 32 degrees Celsius. The Fahrenheit equivelant is, like, 89.6 degrees.  
>* "Greg's List" I don't own Craig's list, therefore you get Greg's List.<br>* "Population" I searched these on my dad's phone (blame our lack of Internet) so I hope they're right. I'm not from Canada, so if some Awesome Vancouverite would let me know if that's the right population, that would be great.  
>* "train" it's true. There's no train station in the real town, but there's a set of train tracks that run straight through the middle of town.<br>* "lamppost" I've referenced France sleeping with a lamppost so many times…anyway, don't blame him. It was a beautiful lamppost and he appreciates anything beautiful!  
>* "perpetually-cloudy" the real town Mouth is based after really isn't perpetually cloudy (funny, I'm writing this while it's raining and dreary outside), and usually it's really nice—unless it's during the Wintertime or humidmuggy as fuck.  
>* "school colours" anything I say regarding the school, such as the colors or the schedule, is true and based off my school. End of story.<br>* "Maria/Miguel" Maria is Venezuela and Miguel is Cuba. But that should be obvious from the paragraph…orz  
>* "half students at lunch" There are two lunch periods—Lunch 1 and Lunch 2. They're scheduled for each student and you can't change them, so you're lucky if you get the same lunch as your friends, and only half of the students are halved. Mattie's in Lunch 2 with Maria and Miguel.<br>* "no adoption fees" Apparently, according to **Sora Moto**, as long as Dr Beilschmidt was in Ivan and Nataliya's parents' will to become their parents after they died, he wouldn't have had to pay any adoption fees. So thank you so much for clearing up my confusion!

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><p><strong><em>And so marks the first chapter in my Twilight parody! I hope you liked it~<em>**

**_Reviews make me happy!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The next day was…strange, too say the least.

It started out normally enough. I'd gotten my breakfast of pancakes, all but drowned them in syrup (I'm Canadian, what?), demanded that Arthur stick to his tea and _not_ try to make _anything_, the usual. I met up with Maria in the parking lot at school and we walked to homeroom together (I didn't tell you? Oh, she's in my homeroom. Sorry, I thought I did), meeting up with Miguel at my locker. The bell rang, Miguel left, and we started class (after homeroom, of course).

Classes were boring (although I did have a study hall with Miguel, supervised by who I hear is the best teacher in the school, so I could talk with him…and ignore how strange that sounds), the teachers were bland (except the English teacher, Miss Braginskaya, who was actually pretty bearable), and the school lunch sucked, so I made my own lunch from home. I'm pretty smart, if I do say so myself. I met up with Maria and Miguel at my locker as usual, and we walked down to the lunch room together. Nothing new there.

Apparently I'd missed some gossip yesterday, with the whole ordeal with the Beilschmidts, so she decided to fill me in. Half way through the lunch period, I looked over to the Beilschmidt table—don't ask me why, okay?—and noticed something…off. Nataliya was smiling lightly, Ivan actually managed to _not_ look like he was about to be killed and eaten by his sister, Elizaveta was grinning even wider than she was yesterday, and Roderich had a tiny smile on his lips, too. Their hair all had little bits of snow mingled in the locks, half-melted with the room temperature. Had it snowed? I never noticed.

But anyway, there was no Gilbert. That (probably) meant that he wouldn't be in biology, which meant that I'd be working by myself.

I couldn't help but try to hold back the intense =D face I was making in my head.

I walked confidently into biology two periods later, but stopped in my tracks as I neared the desk.

_He_ was sitting right there, grinning away obnoxiously, like he'd just spiked the punch bowl at the prom and got away with it (which I wouldn't put past him).

Motherf—

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><p>The period actually passed…rather quickly. Y'know, other than the fact that Gilbert Beilschmidt had finally, actually introduced himself and wouldn't stop obsessing about how supposedly awesome he was.<p>

"S'up."

I looked to the direction of the voice, surprising me that Gilbert Beilschmidt—who'd completely ignored me the class before—was looking at me with a cocked eyebrow and a grin on his face. In no way did he look malicious or angry, but I could see that it was kind of hard to keep that grin.

"I'm The Awesome, or Gilbert to the ladies. I guess you're feminine-looking enough to call me Gilbert," the grin on his face widened, making me blush despite myself. "I didn't get the chance to introduce myself yesterday. You're the Matthew Williams everyone's talking about, I take it?"

I didn't get a chance to answer, because Mr Sound started up class.

"Okay, class…" and then I didn't hear anything after that. But it wasn't my fault! I was trying to listen. Gilbert was the one who kept chattering away. Although he _did_ shut up during directions on what to do for this lab thing.

"Mind if I look first?" He asked, already taking the microscope. Basically what we had to do was recognise and label the parts of a root tip cell (or something), which would be easy enough for me; I'd done this back in Vancouver, like, last year.

"It's prophase," he murmured, already writing the name down on the paper.

Cocky bastard.

"Mind if I check?" I asked, knowing what it would be probably the moment I set my eyes on it.

He only grinned and pushed the microscope over to me. I took it, my hand brushing against his. It was…well, it was really cold. Like he'd spent the past hour in a snowstorm. I averted my gaze—which was slowly trailing down…ah, damn it, I really do have my papa's genes—and looked through the microscope.

It _was_ prophase.

Damned German.

"Sucks about the snow, huh?" he asked, looking at me pensively.

I shook my head. "I'm used to it. Back up in Canada, it used to snow almost year-round."

"So you don't mind the snow." It was more a statement than a question.

"The wet doesn't both me either."

"Mouth mustn't be so bad, then."

"Well, actually…"

A short silence passed between us (when did we finish the paper?).

"So why'd you move here?"

I shot him a sort of incredulous glance, like I couldn't believe he was asking so many questions about my personal life, but shook it off. People are bound to be curious, right? "W-well…my parents split up, back when I was little, and my papa stayed in Vancouver, and Arthur—my dad, I mean—moved down here."

I was barely able to finish my sentence when I was interrupted. "Both of your parents are guys?"

"Don't judge." Gilbert held his hands up as though surrendering, and I continued. "Papa's always dreamed of owning his own restaurant in France—"

"Which is when your papa, as you called him, decided to finally fulfill that dream, and they sent you to this hell hole?" He guessed, earning himself a glare from me. He only shrugged, and let me go on.

"Would you stop that? If you want to know so much about me, then let me talk."

I paused to let him apologize, but all I got was:

"Sorry, Birdie, but I find you…difficult to read."

…Birdie? So I get a nickname now? Great. I sighed, supposing it could be worse (and thanking god it wasn't.).

But, anyway, at least it was an apology.

I didn't get to say any more, as Mr Sound started up class again.

* * *

><p>When the bell rang, to be quite honest, I was happy to be out of there. I slammed my book shut and shoved it into my bag, rushing out of the classroom as fast as I could and all but running to my truck (which, by the way, I decided to name Pumpkin). I huffed a sigh of relief, looking around and noticing that Gilbert hadn't followed me. I set my bag on the truck's hood with a quick sigh, going through it to make sure I had everything. There was <em>no way<em> I was going back into that school until Gilbert was out.

What happened next was only in a matter of seconds.

I was interrupted by a sort of screeching sound, coming from behind me. When I turned to look, I saw a van being hurdled towards me, skidding on the ice. Why couldn't I move? Frozen in shock, I pressed myself against the cold metal of my truck, awaiting the impact. Sure enough, the other van crashed against me and squished me against my truck. I slid to the ground when the van bounced back from the impact, hitting the pavement, blood spewing out of every hole on my body.

…just kidding.

No, actually, the van _was_ hurdling towards me, but, somehow, I was pulled out of the way. Sort of. I think I hit my head against the ground, because I heard a loud _THUD_ and pain erupted through the back of my skull. But then I looked up, pain forgotten, and saw a hole in the side of the van. And an arm extending out of the hole. Then, sure enough, there was a body connected to the arm (I know, I couldn't believe it either). Oh, and the arm was pale white—and I think the other one was holding me up, because there was something hard (not that, you perverts) and rather cold underneath my back, and I couldn't feel anything else under me…except, y'know, under my butt, but that was pavement. It didn't count. Anyway, I looked up, following the odds-on perfectly chiselled chest with my eyes slowly.

_He_ was…well, he wasn't _standing_ over me, per say, but…you get the point, right?

"_Sie haben Glück erwischte ich sie, Birdie_," he told me; I didn't understand a word of it other than 'birdie', "_oder sie würde tot sein._" He shot me a quick grin, set me on the ground carefully, and, after lingering for a moment, climbed away.*

"Matthew, I've got 911 on the phone," someone informed me urgently. I didn't hear them—not really. I was staring at where Gilbert Beilschmidt had left.

* * *

><p>I'd really never liked hospitals. The sterile <em>stench<em> (yeah, yeah, shut up) and the blinding white, not to mention all the patients… Spending time in a hospital, for me, was just about as bad as water torture.

…Okay, so I over exaggerate. It's fun, huh? Seriously, try it…good!

But really, I didn't like them—hospitals, I mean.

And I don't think spending so much time in them as a little kid for injuries during hockey games did anything to help that.

So anyway, when I was told to get on the stretcher and that I'd be taken to the hospital via ambulance, I kind of had a mental breakdown (not helping what was possibly a concussion). I had to ride in the back, on a stretcher.

Gilbert wasn't even recognized as being present at the whole thing.

Why was my luck so bad?

The room I was taken to was pretty standard—two rows of hospital beds lining the long walls, dividing curtains pushed against the walls that were hanging from the ceiling, light, open and organized. The guy who'd almost hit me (a sophomore whose name I didn't know) was in the same room as me, not really looking like he'd just almost hit a (couple of) student(s). There was a gash above his right eye, and it looked like the forming of a bruise on his cheek. He began apologizing to me over and over, and I finally had to tell him to stop; he was beginning to give me a headache.

The doors opened behind me almost immediately after he finally stopped talking, and I heard a deep, tough-sounding German accent. "_Ja_, I've heard. I will take a look at him, so go take your lunch break." I knew it couldn't be, but it sounded so much like…

I turned to look when I heard the doors, and sure enough, it was the Dr Beilschmidt I'd heard of from Maria. The way the doors opened, I couldn't help but imagine him walking down the hall like something from a Beyoncè music video.* Weird.

Dr Beilschmidt was tall, buff, and blond—he kept his hair slicked back neatly, giving him a look that I thought looked appropriate of an old German soldier. He walked over to me, taking the chart from the nurse who was checking me and looking over the papers that were clipped to it.

"Mr Williams—"

"Matthew," I offered, though Dr Beilschmidt didn't stop and correct himself.

"—how are you feeling?" His voice had a sort of a concerned tone, though his face showed absolutely none of it. He didn't give me so much as a pause to answer his question as he went on. "Your X-rays look good. How does your head feel? Gilbert said you'd hit it against the pavement."

I hesitated just slightly. "Fine," I lied. There was only the tiniest of throbbing, which I planned to take some Asprin for when I got home or something to get rid of the pain. Hey, don't judge, okay? I just don't like doctors and wanted to get out of there as soon as possible…

…Wait. Gilbert was here? How hadn't I noticed him before?

Anyway, he nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard that he carried. "_Ja_. Well. Your father is in the waiting room. You can leave with him if you'd like." A slight shift of his face and eyes showed that he gave Gilbert a quick glance, then returned it to me. I almost didn't notice it, but Gilbert almost nodded—it was almost like a twitch, but it was still there nonetheless. I would have missed it if I'd blinked. "If you begin to feel dizzy, come back."

"I-I feel fine, though," I argued, though I didn't really know why I did it. The words kind of just came out of my mouth before I could stop them, making me flush just a bit.

Dr Beilschmidt gave what I think was supposed to be a smile—the corners of his mouth kind of twitched up at the corners, but they made him look awkward. He cleared his throat before answering me. "I suppose you got lucky."

"I guess it was…good that Gilbert was standing next to me, then."

Just like that, the almost-smile was completely wiped off his face, and his eyes got a little wider. He cleared his throat and passed the albino in question, turning away from me and going to check out the boy who'd almost hit me. I couldn't see his face. "Well. _Ja_. I suppose it is."

Gilbert began to walk away, too, but I grabbed at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He turned when my fingers grasped the cloth, and I tried to give him as stern a look as I could manage. "Can I talk to you for a minute? _Alone_?" I accentuated the word, trying to get my point across. He gave a shrug and led me to a little hallway just outside the door.

"What?" he asked, almost spitting the word. I shrank back slightly, but regained my composure quickly.

"I want to know the truth."

A moment of silence passed between us, and then he threw his head back and gave a single, quick, humourless laugh.

That irked me. "How did you get to me? You were nowhere in the area!" I exclaimed, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. This had to be the one time I was happy that my voice wasn't exactly what you might call loud.

Gilbert shot me a perplexed look. "What are you talking about? I was held up at the front office, so I had to leave the school a little later. Little did I know, the bell'd already rung, so I walked out to my Awesome Mobile to drive home, when I saw you. We talked for a minute, and then when that kid's van almost slammed into us, the adrenaline hit me, and I stopped the car. No big deal."

"You're joking, right?" I asked. "We could have died."

And then he did something that nobody in their right mind would do, talking about death.

He laughed.

Well, okay, it was more like a tiny smile, but _still_.

There was something wrong with the guy.

"Well, I'm glad you find this all so very funny," I told him has hard as I could.

Gilbert looked down at me, bright red eyes gleaming with an indescribable emotion. A moment or two of silence passed between us, and he sighed. "Seriously, I'd just give up if I were you."

I replied immediately. "I won't." Looks like the old Bonnefois stubbornness was finally kicking in.

"Then let's hope you like wallowing in disappointment," he told me before turning away without another word. I wasn't done, though.

"Why did you do it?" I blurted out, not realizing what I was saying.

Gilbert didn't turn around as he answered. "I dunno." Without another word, he left me to find my own way down to the waiting room.

When I entered said room, I noticed Arthur standing awkwardly, waiting for me. As I approached him, I realised that I was a few inches taller than he was. Huh.

* * *

><p>When I'd gotten home that evening, Arthur told me while I was making dinner that he'd told papa about the almost-accident. I gave him a call as soon as we'd finished eating, and he sounded almost in hysterics when he answered.<p>

"_Allo? Mathieu?"_

"Oui, papa. C'est moi." It was nice to be speaking to him again, but my French was kind of shaky from not speaking much of it recently (or ever, since I only ever had to speak it around Francis, and even then he knew that I wasn't very good at languages…even if I was almost fluent in Ukrainian*), so I quickly reminded him to use English.*

"_Mon cher fils__, I was so worried; when Arthur told me about the accident, I dropped everything—since I was at work—and rushed home, worried sick! There was absolutely no way I would be able to work, knowing that __mon fils__ was in the hospital!"_ He began rambling in French, and I had to keep from laughing out loud from relief.*

I sighed, smiling. His over-worrying and excuses to get out of work had slipped my mind. "I'm alright, papa. Just calm down, s'il te plait."*

He laughed on the other end at my interruption, carelessly and nonchalant for having just heard that his son had almost—_almost_—been hit by a van. It was a nice sound, though, and made me smile. _"__Je suis désolé, mon fils__."*_

"C'est rien," I assured him, switching the phone to the other ear. "Listen, Papa, I've got homework to do. Uhm…I'll call you back later, okay?"*

On the other end, he made a reluctant sigh. _"Demain?"*_

"Oui, papa. Tomorrow."

"_Salut! __J'adore."*_

"J'adore."

After hanging up, I glanced over to the clock—almost nine; I hadn't noticed how late it was. I set my phone on my bed, ran into the bathroom and took a shower, then ran back to my room with a towel tied around my waist—thank god Arthur had already gone to bed—and got my pyjamas on. Sliding into my bed, I realized that my head hurt—how hadn't I realized it earlier?—so I walked back out into the kitchen, grabbed the Ibuprofen and a glass of water, then finally was able to lay down and actually go to sleep.

And so, that was the first night I dreamed of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Ignore how cliché that sounds.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>**  
><strong>*"Beyoncè" _In the commentary for Twilight, R-Pats said something about originally showing Carlisle walking down the hall like from some music video for Beyoncè, the name of which I don't remember._  
>*"Fluent in Ukrainian" <em>I guess there arewere a crap-ton of Ukrainian immigrants to Canada…_

**Translations: (Keep in mind that I only speak very limited French, not nearly enough to have a full-out conversation, hence Mattie's request of English with his papa, and I also speak absolutely NO German whatsoever, and I speak much better Spanish and English.****  
><strong>* "Sie haben Glück…" German—"You're lucky I caught you, Birdie…or you'd be dead right now." _(I'm warning you right now: I use Babylon(dot)com for my translations, not Google Translate, so I have no idea if it's right or not._  
>* "Allo?..." French—"Hello? Matthew?" <em>Thank you <strong>Black-Wolf-Warrior<strong>_!__  
>* "Oui, papa…" French—"Yes, papa. It's me."<br>* "Mon cher…" French—"My dear son…"  
>* "…s'il te plait." French—"…please." <em>This is the singular version, when speaking with one person rather than a group or someone you wouldn't speak to with their first name, i.e., a teacher or doctor. Thank you more <strong>Black-Wolf-Warrior<strong>!_  
>* "Je suis…" French—"I am sorry, my son."<br>* "C'est rien." French—"That's alright." _The literal translation is something of "Don't mention it", I think._  
>* "Demain?" French—"Tomorrow?"<br>* "Salut!…" French—"Goodbye! I love you." _Thank you **chibigurl305**! **EDIT: I fixed how I had Je t'adore. I know, I'm a failwhale, but I speak no French and it was a typo. Honest!**  
><em>

**A/N: **_Bah! I'd actually had this written up since a while ago, as I posted chapter 1, but I wanted to wait a week to post chapter 2, kind of to see how many reviews/hits I'd get during that week. You know how many I got? 282 hits and 12 reviews! For a single chapter? God, I think I'm in love with each and every one of you that's either reviewed or read or even clicked on this story! Oh my god, seriously, I love you all! *kisses*_

_Reviews make Matthew fall in love with a certain person sooner, me actually write the chapter faster (for next Friday!), and Bella fall to her utterly demising doom with every review, so please help me achieve all three of these by next Friday! Oh, and I know this is a while away, but I'm going to give a reward to whoever is…either the 20th or 25th review, I haven't quite decided yet. But whoever does give that review when the time comes, I will both love you and write a oneshot of your choice!_

_…Long A/N+Notes+Translations is long…_


	3. Chapter 3

**EDIT: I can't believe I didn't remember to do this when I updated yesterday! But thanks everyone SO MUCH for reading! It really means a lot to me, and this is easily my most popular story that I'm actually keeping up (see my profile for the list of stories that are in fact going).**

**And while I'm here, OHMIGOD. Four reviews, five new alerts, and 102 hits in about 12 hours? I love you all so much, like, ohmigod. **

**And I also apologize for the fail dream sequence.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

_It's dark. I can't see anything. My feet move underneath me, though it seems like I should be stopping and gasping for air right now. I can't even feel myself moving._

_My surroundings turn out to be trees, rushing past me at a speed that doesn't seem humanly possible. Looking around I notice that I am on a path through some kind of forest, running like my life depends on it. The path is covered with gravel, but I can't hear it crunch under my feet. The trees around me are tall, looming over me and the path. They create shadows on the already-dark ground, making me wonder if there is a sun on the other side. The sky is dark, with a few stars sprinkling the otherwise black atmosphere._

_I look down. My feet aren't moving. _

_My breathing becomes heavy, not from exhaustion but worry. How am I running if I'm not moving?_

_I stop suddenly, and am thrown to the ground. It doesn't hurt me, though, and I am thankful. I look up, and spot an ivory shape looming over me, looking almost as tall as the trees―but I know that it isn't._

_The ivory figure looks down at me hungrily, a frightening glint in his crimson eyes. Some randomly-shown-up light shines off the sharp fangs―_

…_wait…_

_Crimson eyes?_

_Fangs?_

_Okay, I know only one person with crimson eyes, but this is a dream, right? So anyone could have crimson eyes and fangs._

_But this face is unmistakeable._

_He leans down, his face only inches from mine, and whispers something I don't understand―German, probably. _

"_Ich wette sie schmeken sehr lecker."*_

I woke with a jolt and checked the clock on my phone―3 AM. I sighed and went back to sleep, dreading the next day―er, the rest of the day?―before I realised that it was a Saturday.

* * *

><p>I woke again at around 9 AM to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight in my face.<p>

…

Yeah, are you kidding? In Mouth? I don't think so.

I actually woke to Arthur waking me up to let me know that he had to head down to the station and that he'd be back by dinner. Quite honestly, I'm surprised he remembered about me―and don't think that I've gone emo! It's just a proven fact that I don't stick in peoples' minds as well as, say, my papa. But he makes a bit too much of an impression on people, so it kind of evens out…don't ask me how.

Anyway, after finally getting my butt out of bed and taking a shower, I heard my phone ring. I picked it up without looking at the caller ID. "Hello?"

"_Hey, Matthew?"_

"Miguel?" Weird. How did he get my number?

"Yeah. So hey, you know that movie that came out the other day? The one that's supposed to have really bad CGI and horrible acting?"

"Uh…sure, I think so."

"Yeah. You wanna go see it?"

Go to a movie. With Miguel. Wasn't he dating Maria? "Uh, sure, I don't see why not. Give me half an hour."

"Cool."

He hung up, and since all I really had to do was get something to eat, I grabbed my laptop from my room and logged onto my email using what limited Internet we had. Okay, so technically it wasn't _our_ Internet so much as the woman across the street's, but still. Internet was Internet, and I would take anything I could get.

After waiting what seemed like hours (but was only about a minute and a half, which was almost long enough to quickly answer the phone call to Nature that I'd so desperately needed), my email finally loaded, showing me that I had three unread emails. One from my papa, no doubt in complete French and asking how life was going here in Mouth, telling me any news on the mansion in France, and warning me not to let Arthur cook. The second was some chain letter saying that if I didn't resend it to fifty people in the next ten minutes that I would either die a horrible death at the hands of some monster or I would have a failed love life and end up with my high school sweetheart who would, in turn, kill me in some monstrous way. The third took me by surprise. It was from an address I _almost_ recognized, but it didn't really click, so I actually read this one instead of just skimming like I did with all my other emails.

_Hey, bro! How's it goin'? Can you believe it's been almost fifteen years? DUDE, YOU'RE OLD! Yeah, I'm younger, so you'll die first! HA! Er, right, sorry. Oh, and it's actually been sixteen years, not almost fifteen, so don't let me get ya all confuzzled! Anyway, why am I emailing? Well I heard you were movin' to the area so I wanted to shoot you a message to let you know I haven't __totally__ forgotten about ya. It's not like I have, psshnaw. So gimme a call or reply to the message and meh-be we'll hang out sometime! :D ~HERO~_

Oh. Of course. How could I not have recognised that email? TehPwnsumHeroAl at whatever domain he used? It really _had_ been a long time.

(And it didn't matter what he said; it's been nearly fifteen years. I won't question how he knew I was thinking that it was fifteen years, either.)

Alfred, who'd been given his late mother's maiden name after her death as tribute to her, wasn't actually blood-related to me and papa. Believe it or not, he's actually, like, Arthur's second nephew or something, but he's about a year and a half younger than I am. When his mother died, Alfred was only around six months old; his father (who I never actually met until my last visit with Arthur) asked Arthur to watch Alfred for the night while he went to her funeral. Since none of her family really liked Arthur much, even though she adored him, he didn't think he would be welcome so he said his words back home. On the way back from the funeral to pick up Alfred, he got into a really bad car accident and was hospitalized for most of Alfred's life. With his dad in the hospital, Arthur and Francis, since they were still the happy couple at that point, let Al live with us until Uncle George was out of the hospital. It was really sad, even if I was only two, but I almost felt good for Alfred―he was only about six months old, so he never really knew his mother. He just sat there, smiling at whatever I tried saying in two-year-old-language. It still gives me a sad feeling whenever I think about it, because―

A quick knocking at the door jolted me out of my frame of mind, startling me for a moment. Had I spaced out for that long? I glanced at the clock, and sure enough, it was later. Not quite half an hour, but almost.

Almost here meaning twenty minutes early. Were Cubans known for coming early?

I called for him to come in as I jotted a quick reply to Alfred's email. I heard the door open and rushed out to greet Miguel, lead him in and tell him he was really early.

…There was a problem, though. It wasn't Miguel at the door, but a tall, blond man with bright blue eyes and a cowlick that looked like it refused to lay down. He wore a bomber's jacket over a white t-shirt, baggy blue jeans and a too-cheerful grin on his face.

"Mattie!" His voice was painfully loud, hurting my ears and breaking through the previously-comfortable silence that had surrounded me and was my only companion in the otherwise-empty house.

Except, you know, my fluffy, bear-like cat Kumaluka who did nothing but ask to be fed, sleep, and pretend he didn't know who I was. But that's beside the point.

"Hello? Aren't you gonna greet the hero?"

"A-Alfred?" It kind of bugged me that I was stammering; my voice was already quiet and hard enough to understand to begin with. 'Alfred' nodded. "Oh my god, you've gotten taller. And―"

"Sexier, of course. No need to be humble for me, Mattie." He rubbed his hands over his shirt for a second, then lifted the cotton so that his toned eight-pack was visible. Did you know that it was possible, having more than a six-pack? No, neither did I.

I only blinked, not quite sure how to respond. He certainly _had_ changed, but not quite how he thought. His hair was still blond as could be, but the cowlick was new, and so were the glasses. His skin was tanned, but not overly so like the guys on _Jersey Shore_, and his eyes were as blue as I remembered them being. They were bright and sparkled happily even though there were no lights on inside, and the sun was behind him.

"So what'cha up to lately? I know you, like, just moved here; how're you adjusting? Sucks we don't go to the same school, I could totally talk to you whenever and not get in trouble for skipping school. But it's not like it would stop me from doing so anyway; I've been caught already a few times but it's cool 'cuz, y'know, I can't really get in trouble 'cuz my dad's chief of our little reservation which is really weird since we're not Indians. Anyway, I've been working on this car that I'm trying to rebuild. And it's cool, too, 'cuz my dad can't come down to my little shed where I work 'cuz of his wheelchair, so I could bring some hot girl down there and―"

"Alfred!" I tried raising my voice so that he would hear me over whatever he was going through, and it seemed to work. He stopped talking and focused on me. "You had coffee today, didn't you?"

A moment passed between us, broken only by Kumachisa's meowing about food. "Yep," Alfred finally confessed, popping on the 'p'.

I brought him into the living room to sit, and we talked for a while about what we've been up to for the past fifteen years until I remembered something―_Oh maple I was supposed to be getting ready to go see that movie with Miguel_―with a few swift raps to the front door. Had it really been twenty minutes? Oops.

"Eh…I'll get it. Just sit here for a minute and I'll be back, eh?"

I left before Alfred had a chance to get up. Unfortunately, the living room is the first room you come to when coming through the front door, so he got up anyway. I muttered a few, eh, _unmentionable_ things under my breath that Alfred didn't seem to hear.

"God, Miguel, I'm so sorry. I completely forgot about having to meet you at the movie theatre. C'mon, we can go right now, eh?"

Miguel wasn't listening. Instead, he was glaring at Alfred, who had an equally angry look on his face despite the grin stretching across it. "You know this guy, Matt?" Miguel asked, and I nodded.

"He's sort of like my brother, but not quite. We're not actually related, but―"

Sometimes, I don't even know why I bother talking.

Miguel and Alfred were in the middle of a stare-off, glaring at each other like I wasn't even there. Alfred's grin was still in place, but it looked much more frightening with his eyes narrowed. I suppressed a shudder, and opened my mouth to begin talking, but Alfred spoke first.

"I guess I'll see you later, Mattie." He didn't take his eyes off of Miguel, and his voice sounded cold. Did they know each other? Oh, god, what did Alfred do this time? My thoughts were broken by the sound of the front door all but slamming shut. Miguel gave a little, almost nervous laugh.

"That guy is weird."

I shook my head and pushed him out the door, hurrying to his car and driving off to the theatre.

* * *

><p>The next day, a Sunday, was really uneventful. Eh, okay, wait, scratch that. More like, it was the worst day of my being in Mouth. First, I was asked to the end-of-the-year dance that the school was holding by two different guys—not girls, but two <em>boys<em>—and I didn't even know one of them. The first, actually, was the one that I didn't know, the one who had nearly hit me with his van. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so I quickly came up with the idea of going down to Portland that weekend. The next guy to ask me was, believe it or not, Miguel. At first, he'd mistaken me for Alfred and beat me over the head with his backpack (which I didn't know why he had it with him…or what he was doing at my house, for that matter).

So it was Monday.

The day passed surprisingly quickly once again. Periods 1, 2, A, and B were all surprisingly short despite the total of about three and a half hours altogether. Since I sat with Maria, who seemed to be quite the gossip whore, at lunch, she pointed out that, even though Gilbert wasn't there, the Beilschmidt family was at their normal lunch table, grinning away happily in most of their cases. Nataliya was smiling away, looking like a goddess, quite frankly. Elizaveta's mouth was turned into more of a grin than an actual smile, staring lovingly at Roderich. Roderich's face was actually sort of in a neutral expression, but it looked happier than the past few days—coincidentally, Gilbert wasn't there. I noted a quick connection of eyes between myself and Elizaveta, who was sitting so that her back was towards the stage in the cafeteria and away from me, and she glanced over to a table on the other side of the room.

Gilbert was grinning wickedly, gesturing to me it seemed. Did he want me to go over there? I glanced at Maria, who had noticed this little exchange.

"You know Gilbert wants you to go sit with him, right?" she asked, and I flushed but nodded.

"I know. Should I?" Oh great, now I sounded like a prepubescent girl.

Maria grinned, nodding. "Yes! Ohmigod, the lunch period's nearly over." Her words made me take a quick glance at the clock—only a little under five minutes had passed since the period began. There was still about fifteen left. I sighed, bid Maria and Miguel a quick goodbye, and walked quickly to where Gilbert was sitting.

"What?" I all but growled, though in my barely-there voice it sounded like I was trying to scold a child in the middle of a crowded theatre for talking.

"Sit down," Gilbert instructed me, gesturing to the chair across from him. Well, okay, so he didn't say 'sit down' _per say_, it was sort of slurred and came out more like 'siddown.'

I did as he asked with a sigh. I'd opted out of a lunch today, since I woke up late and was nearly late for school. I would have gotten a school lunch, but have you had lunch from a public high school yet? Yuck.

"So what's your problem? You ignore me one day, then you talk to me during biology like we've been friends for years, and now you're inviting me to eat with you? Are you bipolar or something?"

Gilbert grinned at my mini-outburst. "Kid, you have no idea how close to the truth you are." His voice was soft, barely a whisper, and if I hadn't been paying attention I would have missed it. I pretended not to hear and he spoke up again, louder this time. "So I heard about your plans to go down to Portland on the same day as the dance. You don't look awesome enough to defend ourself against whatever odds you may be put against, so I think maybe you should take the Awesome Me along with you. Just in case."

…He was joking, right? Certainly he had some sort of date to the dance.

I would say no. Simply refuse him. Tell him that if I had wanted to take someone along with me, it would be Miguel or Maria or something, but with no offence to him. It was just that I didn't know him that well, only going by what Maria had told me on that first day of mine.

"Eh…Sure, I don't see why not."

Clearly, my mouth was acting in a conspiracy against me.

* * *

><p><em>*"Ich wette…" <strong>German—"<strong>_**_I'll bet you taste delicious."_**

**_If you have any questions about the schedule, let me know.  
><em>**

* * *

><p><strong>Yes, yes, I know I suck. But I actually hit a spot of writer's block for this chapter, and it's not nearly as long as I'd hoped, but at least it's something. It's more than I've updated for, say, my really old Naruto fanfic that I'm going to delete soon. Maybe after I post this chapter…probably not; I've got other things I need to do. It <em>is<em> a study hall right now, after all.  
><strong>

**Okay, I probably should have said something in like the first chapter of this thing, but Canada is only slightly OOC because he's being based off my Facebook RP Canada. The link is on my profile if you want to check it out—I'm only going to friend other Facebook RPers for Hetalia, so keep that in mind! Oh, and I RP Hungary, too. I've added the two as friends already. I feel so awesome! XD**

**Yeah, the dream sequence is a fail. :P The whole thing's pretty short, like I said. Only a few paragraphs longer than six pages.**

**Please review! More reviews = more motivation = more Prucan! **

**Lessthanthree.  
><strong>


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